


Safe

by LearnedFoot



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grooming, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Verbal Humiliation, negative feelings mostly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “Tony, Tony, Tony, what are we going to do with you?” Obie said as he sat next to him, closer than strictly normal. Tony noticed that, the closeness, observed it with the detached curiosity of someone who wasn’t entirely in their body.
Relationships: Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miri Cleo (miri_cleo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miri_cleo/gifts).



> Thank you for donating to a great cause <3 And for giving me an excuse to write more of this delicious pairing. As you can see, I went a bit over my self-imposed 1k limit -- I just couldn't help myself, they're too fun!
> 
> **Warning:** Please heed the tags!

Tony was fifteen the first time Obie touched him.

He was home for winter break, sprawled on a couch in his dad’s office, nursing a bottle of the good stuff and hiding from the holiday cheer downstairs. It was the annual gathering of office bigwigs, and Tony had already been trotted out like one of mom’s show ponies for all the adults to exclaim over. _MIT at fifteen, what a genius, Howard must be so proud!_

As if dad had anything to do with it beyond donating his genes.

He was just tilting over into the kind of drunk where the world brightened, hard angles went soft, and everyone became slightly more bearable, when Obie found him. Tony didn’t even try to hide the bottle; no one had any delusions about what he was doing up here.

“Tony, Tony, Tony, what are we going to do with you?” Obie said as he sat next to him, closer than strictly normal. Tony noticed that, the closeness, observed it with the detached curiosity of someone who wasn’t entirely in their body. 

He definitely noticed when Obie patted him not on the knee but halfway up the thigh. And then left his hand there.

“Looks like you’re being a bad boy,” Obie chuckled. His hand moved higher. “Very bad."

Tony wasn’t an idiot. Sure, he was several years younger than the next youngest undergrad at MIT, but enough of his fellow students thought his wealth made up for his age—or, in some cases, thought his age was a perk—that he knew what a hand making its way toward his dick meant. He also knew a good time could follow.

And Obie wasn’t bad looking. The opposite, really, in an authoritative kind of way. Tony could go for older. Had, with that grad student who taught him the tongue thing. Which was fantastic, real learning experience. If he looked at it that way, this could be a net positive.

But then he saw the predatory glint in Obie’s eye. His stomach flipped, a squeamish kind of dread worming down his spine. He didn’t—it was _Obie_. He’d known him forever; remembered with startling clarity that time three or four years ago when he’d taken Tony to a baseball game because Howard flaked for the fourth weekend in a row. Obie hadn’t said anything about the tears Tony hid behind sunglasses, hadn’t made him talk about his feelings or anything. Just took him to the ballgame and gave him a good time.

It had, for a brief afternoon, made Tony feel wanted. Safe.

“Obie, I—” His tongue was thick, brain too foggy to form a gentle rejection. He didn’t want to be rude, not to one of the few adults who treated him with respect. But this…didn’t feel safe. “I don’t think…”

Instantly, Obie’s hand was gone. He drew back, shifting his body away. Tony felt a tug of regret somewhere in the vicinity of his dick.

“Sorry,” Obie said. His voice was smooth and calming. “Didn’t mean to push. But…think about it, Tony. Offer’s on the table.” He stood, grabbing the bottle from Tony’s hand. “Howard’s looking for you, by the way. I can buy you ten minutes, but you should get your ass downstairs.”

Tony did his best impression of sitting up. “Oh. Thanks.”

“I’ve got your back,” Obie said with a wink before slipping out of the office, leaving Tony with the distinct impression that he’d misjudged the situation.

\--

Tony thought about that first time in the following years. The warm weight of Obie’s palm on his thigh, the offer, the wink. He came all over his hand with the echo of _I’ve got your back_ in his head more often than he liked to admit. But he didn’t do anything about it because—because. The glint in Obie’s eye still made his stomach curdle when he considered letting fantasy slip into reality.

\--

But then his parents died and Obie was a fucking rock. He was the one who scooped Tony’s plastered ass off the floor of a frat house at some college that definitely wasn’t MIT. Who kept Tony sober enough to not make a scene at the funeral, and slipped him a flask so he could survive the reception.

And, most of all: he was the one who brought Tony food in the days that followed, as Tony lounged in his room, too drunk to make his limbs go through the motions of crawling out of bed. Obie came every day, twice a day, even though he also had a company to run.

He was so god damn patient with Tony, who was being a grade-A pain (as Obie occasionally muttered, so low Tony probably wasn’t supposed to hear). Patient, and nice, making sure to bring Tony’s favorite foods, even hauling him to the bathroom on occasion.

Safe _._

So when Obie’s hand slid up the back of Tony’s thigh sometime around day five of Tony not leaving his bed, Tony thought, _sure_. He’d been miserable for the last week. Sex wasn’t miserable. Sex was fun. And Obie was okay. Obie was great, really. Always had been.

Why the hell not?

Tony was already face down in nothing but underwear, because that’s where he was emotionally, so all he had to do was let his legs spread and thrust his butt in the air. Not very high—too much effort—but enough to signal that he was on board with where this was going.

“Very good,” Obie said, and he sounded so pleased. Something in Tony’s chest loosened, heat pooling between his thighs.

Obie’s hands were confident as they rubbed up Tony’s ass, squeezing at the flesh so hard it bordered on unpleasant. His nails scratched Tony’s side as he hooked his fingers into Tony’s boxer-briefs and tugged, pulling them down to around his knees.

Tony tilted his head to watch as Obie stood back, stripping himself with brutal efficiency. Things were a little swimmy in the vision department—thanks, alcohol—but Tony could see well enough to make out the broad muscles of Obie’s chest and the impressive girth of his cock, standing hard in a patch of black curls.

“Like what you see?” Obie asked, beginning to stroke himself. A triumphant smile curled at the corners of his lips.

“Mmm,” Tony agreed. He wasn’t really in a state to like anything these days, but he definitely didn’t _dislike_ what he saw.

“Good.” Obie idled his way over to Tony’s bedside table, retrieving a bottle of lube with a knowing smirk, as if he’d uncovered a dirty secret. “Well, well, well, what have we here?”

“Always be prepared,” Tony muttered, not sure why he felt the need to defend himself. He was seventeen, of course he had lube on hand.

“Glad all those years in the scouts weren’t completely wasted on you.”

Obie settled back on the bed, grabbing a pillow to shove under Tony’s hips before straddling his legs. Tony heard the click of the lube opening, followed by the tell-tale slapping of someone slicking up their own cock. A few drops of lube landed on his back, startlingly cold.

Without preamble, Obie pulled Tony’s ass cheeks apart and let out a low whistle. Tony wasn’t sure if it was flattering or humiliating, but either way it went straight to his dick. He rutted against the pillow.

“Look at that.” Obie sounded amused. He nudged what could only be the head of his dick against Tony’s hole. “Someone likes a compliment. Now be a good boy and relax.”

Before Tony could ask if they were going to do prep or foreplay or _something_ , Obie was pushing in, breaching the tight clench of his muscles. Tony gasped when he felt Obie’s hips meet his ass moments later. Obie’s hand stroked Tony’s back, gentle, shushing him. Then he pulled back and slammed forward, too hard and too fast. Tony jerked beneath the movement.

“Obie…” he whispered, as Obie repeated the motion, again and again. His lips formed the words _please_ , and _slower_ , but he couldn’t find the breath to say them.

“You feel so good,” Obie growled. He shifted position, one hand grabbing Tony’s hip, the other pressing against the middle of his shoulders, pinning him down. “So tight.”

Tony’s cock throbbed, covering the pillow with precome. He made a plaintive noise, embarrassing.

“Oh yeah, you like being good.” Tony could hear the smile in Obie’s voice as he picked up the pace. He changed his angle slightly and suddenly Tony was seeing stars. “I always knew you just needed someone to take a strong hand. Put you in your place.”

Tony whined, rutting forward against the pillow, back onto Obie’s dick, chasing pleasure or maybe trying to escape the non-stop pace. Obie’s hand slid up his back, grabbing his hair and yanking his head to an uncomfortable angle.

“Are you going to be good for me, Tony?”

Tony tried to nod, but he couldn’t move against the grip on his hair. He made a strangled sound instead.

“Say it.”

Obie’s thrusts were getting harder, unbearable, the rhythm stuttering. Close, some part of Tony’s brain that retained coherence offered. Obie was close.

“I’m going to be good,” Tony gasped. “I’ll be so good for you.”

“Yeah you will.”

Suddenly Obie was on top of him, chest-to-back, breath hot on his face. The hand on Tony’s hip snuck around his front, grabbing his dick, tugging at it. The extra stimulation put Tony on edge in an instant.

“You’re going to be so good for me, Tony,” Obie whispered in his ear, voice threatening despite being soft. Tony squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block something out—the sound, the sensations—but it didn’t help. “I’ve been very patient. I’ve waited for so long. But now you’re mine, aren’t you?”

His hand moved faster while his assaulted Tony’s prostate, punching moans out of him. Tony didn’t remember agreeing to be anybody’s anything, but all he could do in the moment was nod, desperate for release.

“Yeah, all mine. My own personal slut.”

Tony spilled onto the pillow with a surprised gasp, shame flooding his body along with the release. He never said—he wasn’t—

Tears blurred his vision as Obie continued to slam into him, chasing his own pleasure, not seeming to spare a thought for the pained, overstimulated whimpers Tony couldn’t hold back. He was still talking, muttering, too low to really hear, but Tony caught snatches of “Good,” and “slut,” and maybe even “Toy.”

And then Obie came, no warning, heat flooding Tony’s insides. He collapsed, panting against Tony’s ear as Tony lay in a pool of his own come and tried very hard not to cry.

\--

But then—but then. But then Obie stayed. He brought Tony a towel to wash off, water to drink. He lay his big palm on his face and brushed away the tears. He crawled into bed, pulled Tony against his chest, and said, with unrecognizable gentleness, “It’s all going to be okay. I’ve got your back, remember?”

Right. Tony nodded, suddenly on the edge of tears again. Right, Obie had his back. Obie was the one who always took care of him.

He swallowed the urge to sob, focusing on the sensation of strong arms around his waist and the tickle of chest hair against his cheek. There was no reason for him to cry. No reason to be upset. Someone had his back.

He was safe. 


End file.
